


Sweetheart(s)

by yumbledore



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff, Grindeldore Holiday Exchange 2020, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28880769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yumbledore/pseuds/yumbledore
Summary: Prompt: Grindelwald and Albus’ relationship through the ages, whether a study on the journey or just a focus on a certain period of time. Doesn’t necessarily have to be canon (can be an alternate ending), but preferably not a full AU.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19
Collections: Grindeldore Holiday Exchange 2020





	Sweetheart(s)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [horr0rvacui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/horr0rvacui/gifts).



**_5\. Cauldron Cakes_ **

When Albus finally cracks open the door, Bathilda is horrified yet unsurprised about how emotionally dead he looks. If she hadn’t known of the circumstances, and if there hadn’t been a sign on the door bearing the name Dumbledore, Bathilda would’ve assumed she’d intruded on an inferius. Albus’ eyes are vacant and hollow and bloodshot, his skin pale in the September twilight. A five o’clock shadow caresses his chin and his hair is unkempt. Heart wrenching in commiseration, Bathilda wonders how much he has been eating lately.

She quickly arranges her face into a smile. “Cauldron Cakes? I’ve also got a book I reckon would interest you,” she says kindly, holding the items up like an offering.

Despite remaining as polite as ever, he’s reluctant to invite her in, she can tell. Albus hurries into the kitchen before her, and there’s a distinct sound of pots and pans quickly being moved around, glass tinkling and cabinets being shut. Bathilda moves slowly to give him time; it’s not like she has expected him to keep the house in tip-top shape after what transpired only a few weeks ago …

Albus pulls out a chair for her at the kitchen table and she dumps the cauldron and the book on the wooden surface of the table before sitting down. She suggests tea and he gives a perfunctory nod, mumbling something affirmative before drawing his wand. There’s a stretched out pause in which Albus looks down at the wand, unmoving, before quickly pocketing it again and walking over to the tea kettle and manually filling it with water from a basin.

Bathilda can’t help but stare, completely bewildered. Even with his back turned to her, she can tell that Albus is blushing, his movements clumsy and hurried. Albus Dumbledore, young genius wizard extraordinaire, heating up water the muggle way?

_Interesting,_ Bathilda thinks while nibbling on a Cauldron Cake. _Trauma or conscious choice?_

Bathilda subtly directs her own wand at the kettle to quickly bring it up to a boil while Albus still has his back turned.

They exchange some small talk about the book on Alchemy Bathilda brought with her while Albus pours tea into two porcelain cups. When he finally sits down in front of her (pointedly avoiding her inquisitive eyes), Bathilda decides it’s time to get straight to the point.

“How are you really doing Albus?”

Albus busies himself with stirring down honey into his tea before squaring his shoulders and looking her straight in the eye. “Fine.”

Bathilda says nothing for a while, hoping he’ll elaborate, but once it becomes clear he isn’t going to, she says softly, “I really miss him too, you know.”

She watches something crumble in his expression before he blinks, and his eyes become guarded again. He visibly swallows a couple of times. “He- have you heard anything from him?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

There’s an awkward pause in which Bathilda wonders how to navigate these stormy waters. The wounds are still obviously very fresh, but she can’t let this go on forever. “You know what Albus – I think you need something to busy that incredible mind of yours.”

“I’m writing a few articles here and there.”

Bathilda hums thoughtfully. “I was thinking more of a change of scenery. There’s nothing holding you back in Godric’s Hollow now, is there?” The things left unsaid hovering between them are uncomfortable, but Bathilda presses on, relentless: “I think we both know he isn’t coming back.”

Albus grimaces and looks away. They drink the rest of their tea in silence.

He follows her to the door to bid her goodbye. Bathilda, usually quite reserved, goes in for a hug. Albus is clearly surprised and uncomfortable, his whole body stiff and awkward, but Bathilda holds on until Albus gives in and hugs her back.

She hopes the hug conveys the things Albus doesn’t want to hear, and that the letter from Nicolas Flamel tucked in between the pages of _Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science_ send him on a road of recovery and self-fulfillment. 

**_4._ ** **_Acid Pop_ **

****

Gellert sweeps into the dining hall of the Nurmengard castle. Several acolytes seem to already have enjoyed their breakfast – three house elves drift around the chairs of the long dining table to collect used plates and cutlery. Rosier is buttering a scone, Credence is brooding over his porridge, and Queenie, Abernathy and a few others are seated around the fireplace, drinking tea and sharing a quiet conversation.

It’s quite late for Gellert to eat breakfast, but he’d burned the midnight oil the previous night to revise the plans for the next couple of months. It’s usually at times like these that Gellert finds himself subconsciously wishing he’d have someone to bounce his ideas with, just for sheer _efficiency_. Then he registers where his thoughts are heading and anger churns low within him.

The house-elves have been instructed to leave a series of combed-through newspapers from around the world by his seat at the end of the table. In the past, he’d request them to bring any news pertaining to his achievements, but as the years went by, the pile of newspapers and magazines would grow too big to scan through every morning. Instead, he now asks them to bring him news of his enemies, of which there really exists only one, in singular.

On most days, there is nothing, except for some boring article in _The Prophet_ about the staff at Hogwarts, in which he’s usually only briefly mentioned by name – but occasionally there are articles – lengthy pieces of marvelous academic writing in _Transfiguration Today_ , _Challenges in Charming_ or _The Practical Potioneer_ through which Gellert’s heart would make ridiculous leaps every time he recognized certain colloquialisms from the yellowing letters locked inside his bedside drawer.

Today is a lucky day, because on his silver plate lies a folded copy of _The Practical Potioneer._ Gellert casts a quick look at the people closest to him before sitting down and urgently flicking through the magazine. An elf pours him coffee and then bows so low his nose almost touches the ground before scurrying away.

It’s a two-page spread, and Gellert feels as if an Acid Pop burns a hole through his stomach when he notices the accompanying profile photo in the upper left-hand corner. Eagerly, he brandishes his wand to magnify the photo and drag it to the center of the page.

The shock of looking into Albus’ piercing eyes rockets through him like a lightning bolt. It’s like recovering a long-lost memory – Gellert can’t believe he had forgotten how they could twinkle, of how quick with intelligence they were. He stares in wonder and starts to register other things, of things that have come with age, of how Albus really has grown into his features. Why is his nose like that? The photo doesn’t show anything below his neck, but that’s fine with Gellert, it gives him a free playing field to imagine what Albus could potentially – or potentially not, _hehe_ – be wearing. The photograph is a priceless treasure and Gellert wonders if he should keep it in his chest pocket or bedr–

_CRASH_

Gellert’s mental shields rise quickly back up again, but the damage has already been done. Queenie apologizes profusely over the broken teacup (Abernathy already drawing out his wand to repair it) and casts a quick, terrified glance in Gellert’s direction before excusing herself and hightailing it out of the room. Carrow and Abernathy exchange confused looks but Gellert leans back in his chair in frustration.

He’ll have to obliviate her, or talk himself out of this, but it’s going to be a tough feat with that brain of hers. Anger flares inside him as he looks down at the mildly smiling photo of Albus. After all these years, he’s once again reminded of exactly why this man is, and remains, his greatest weakness.

**_3\. Cockroach cluster_ **

The trial is held in front of the entire International Confederation of Wizards. Albus is there, of course, and he smiles wanly every time a colleague comes over to congratulate him on winning the duel. People are still scrambling to take their seats, and Albus is seated so high up that the witches and wizards moving on the lower levels remind him of a cockroach cluster.

He is brought in by twelve aurors, and silence falls over the circular room as he’s double and triple chained onto the lone seat in the middle of the floor. The aurors back away but remain standing all around him, wands continually pointed in his face, his face that is searching the crowd-

Gellert’s eyes find his, and Albus can’t look away. The events from the duel that he’s been trying to repress wash over him like a tidal wave. It’s surreal that it has come to this. Albus is still trying to sift through his emotions – the aftermath of the duel left him feeling void of much, but there is a certain desperation seizing the forefront of his mind at the present moment.

“… The Death Chamber!” is one booming suggestion that receives affirmative applause and nods from people around the room. Albus’ stomach squirms against his will and Gellert is still looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face, unflinching.

“Throw him into Azkaban!”

“Or better yet, let a dementor kiss him?”

Albus grows cold inside, as if there is an actual dementor present. Before he’s aware of what he’s doing, he’s standing up, and silence falls over the room. Gellert’s lips twist as if he’s holding back a laugh, and Albus opens his mouth to offer his own suggestion of what the International Confederation of Wizards should do with Gellert Grindelwald.

**_2\. Chocolate Frog_ **

****

It’s been quite a day for Albus. After a tedious morning comprised of five separate owls from Cornelius Fudge, paperwork for the Wizengamot and a staff meeting concerning the oncoming spring term at Hogwarts, Albus popped into Honeydukes to refill his rapidly diminishing stock of sweets before heading straight back to work.

Heaving a big sigh, he unwraps his scarf and shifts around piles of parchment on his desk, an oncoming headache blooming in the pinch of his brows. It’s usually at times like these that Albus finds himself subconsciously wishing he’d have someone to bounce his ideas with, just for sheer _efficiency_. Then he registers where his thoughts are heading and shame bubbles low within him.

Absentmindedly grabbing a chocolate frog for himself, he starts planning out how to go about his work when he catches sight of his name in an unexpected place.

_ALBUS DUMBLEDORE,_

_currently headmaster of Hogwarts._

_Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and ten-pin bowling._

Albus drops down in his seat and rereads the card, flipping it over to see a smiling portrait of himself. Feeling stunned, oddly claustrophobic and like he deserves a bit of a break from everything, he drops the card on his desk and heads straight for the shallow stone basin locked inside one of his cabinets. Selecting a bottle of memories he’d received by owl post from a certain prison in Central Europe, Albus pours in the content of the bottle and swills the swirling mass of thoughts in the Pensieve a few times before leaning in, his mind going blank of everything except the need for an escape from the present.

**_1\. Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans_ **

****

_Their late-night endeavors would, more often than not, devolve into an invented game of theirs called “Truth or Bean”. Gellert came up with the general concept and Albus supplied the beans, which were a birthday present from his aunt Honoria. Albus had never been a particularly big fan on Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, so he relished the idea of sharing half of the box with his newfound best friend._

_Gellert chews slowly and Albus watches him for a reaction, but the former merely grins. “Peppermint,” he confirms and Albus groans in theatrical disappointment._

_“You always get the easy ones!”_

_“Not true.”_

_“Yes true,” Albus counters, pouting, which draws Gellert’s eyes down to his lips and supplies him with sudden inspiration for his next question._

_“My turn. Truth or Bean: You want to kiss me.”_

_Albus’ jaw drops open and Gellert watches heat flood his cheeks. “What kind of question is that,” he protests._

_“Don’t even try to deflect it, it’s a reasonable question,” Gellert says, flipping hair out of his face before giving Albus a mischievous smirk. “I’ve seen how you look at me,” he teases._

_Albus laughs nervously, eyes flickering away. They’re sitting so close that their knees are touching. “I think you’re rather overestimating yourself here.”_

_“Am I?”_

_Albus’ Adam’s apple bobs a few times, and Gellert can tell from his expression that he’s doing some rapid thinking. He’s surprised to realize he’s waiting with bated breath, his heart beating a nervous drum roll in his chest._

_“Bean,” Albus says finally, and Gellert slumps back in disappointment._

_“Boring,” he complains, letting out a ‘boo’ for good measure._

_“Shush,” Albus laughs, still pink in the face. He uses his wand to summon a bean at random, magically directing it into his mouth._

_Gellert watches Albus thoughtfully chew a few times, his face soon enough twisting into a disgusted grimace that descends Gellert into a peal of laughter. He leans forward, can’t help himself really, because Albus looks so irresistible his heart is about to explode out of his chest with the force of it. He hauls him in by the collar to slant their lips together._

_Albus goes still, but when Gellert darts out his tongue to wet at Albus’ lower lip, he sighs and surges forward, responding to the kiss with gusto. It’s wonderful and butterflies bounce in Gellert’s stomach, Albus grabs the hem of his shirt, gasps, and Gellert-_

_–pulls back, revolted. He spits out the remains of Albus’ bean into his handkerchief. “Merlin’s Pants, who comes up with these flavours? Was that–_ ”

_Albus’ shoulders shake with laughter, his eyes twinkling in amusement. “Yes, I daresay that was a vomit-flavoured one.”_

**_0._** _**Sherbet Lemon** _

****

The neon sign above their wooden lane flashes in bright green and purple, bearing the word ‘STRIKE!’ down upon them. Albus turns to Gellert with a smug face, the bouncing lights glinting off of his half-moon spectacles. He pulls down and smooths out his beard, which he had thrown over his shoulder to keep out of the way during the game. “Looks like I win.”

Gellert has a sullen expression on his face, thin arms crossed. The lights create interesting shadows on his aged features. He frowns down at the little screen displaying their final points. “To be frank, when you told me you’d be taking me to the French Riviera for your summer holiday, I for some reason imagined more lounging by the beach and drinking champagne and less hanging out at strange muggle establishments with ear-splitting noise levels.”

“Well, you refused the sunscreen, so–”

“You know I don’t trust that strange muggle-made goo–”

“But the music is rather loud, you’re right,” Albus interjects quickly, casting a look around. They’re the only ones at the bowling alley, save from the lone muggle operating the empty bar. Sneakily, Albus draws out the Elder Wand from his pocket and directs it at the stereo. The raucous rock n’ roll music immediately transitions to much quieter chamber music. The muggle, who had been polishing a glass, startles out of his stupor and ambles over to the music machine, scratching his head in confusion.

“Should we do another game then?” Albus asks hopefully and then catches Gellert's longing glance at the wand when he turns back. He quickly shoves the Elder Wand back into his pocket.

Gellert raises his eyes to the heavens. “Hasn’t this emaciated body of mine suffered enough for one day?”

“Don’t be such a sore loser,” Albus says. “Here, do you want a sherbet lemon as a consolation prize?”

“Wasn’t I promised a milkshake earlier? I’d rather be kissed by a dementor than play this awful game again...”

“I’m afraid there can only be one person to kiss you.” Albus slips his hand into Gellert’s and shoots him an unrestrained smile full of meaning.

Gellert smiles wryly, a rush of warmth going through him. “Possessiveness looks _great_ on you, by the way.”

Albus chuckles. “Come on, let’s get you that milkshake.”


End file.
